One young scholar, navigating the twists and turns of the large maze-like library, is in search of an obscure text by Sir Arthur Ashby titled, The Reason for Being: Alchemy and Art, a Life Long Journey of Reconciling Space and Time. The book is required to finish his paper on the systematics of integration. He has been looking for some time now, frustration mounting. His name is Finley Goodstroke. He is a bright student, though not the best. His Uncle is the Guildmaster, and Finley’s reason for acceptance into the Tower. He rarely forgets that he does not belong at the Tower, and therefore works tirelessly to prove his worth, both to himself and to his more affluent classmates. Any accolades he receives are not due to any inborn intellect, but rather an unfailing work ethic. Needless to say, he is angry with himself for letting so much of the day evaporate as he combs the stacks for Ashby’s book. He is a tall youth with dark hair and stylish but worn clothes. He walks with a purposeful gait, set jaw, and searching eyes. Though he is capable of laughing, he does not often relax, and those that know him best describe his facial expressions and outward persona as both intimidating and intense, though he thinks of himself as nothing more than contemplative and introverted. Even though he is given to bouts of melancholia, above all, he is a good person. Let us end this preamble, however, and begin our story afresh assuming a new perspective, that is, a change in person. Finley placed a long finger on a thick brown binding, narrowed his focus, and traced a line along the titles of the row as he slowly moved between two stacks. It was midday, the sun shone through the windows on the vaulted ceiling. His finger stopped. He smiled, inwardly, and removed a book from its resting place: Tales of Ages Gone By, A History of Elaea in Three Volumes, vol. 4. His father used to read it aloud. He thumbed through the table of contents as his feet moved towards the nearest table. Surely, he thought, I can break for a minute or two. It was an old book that smelled of mold and lettuce. The pages were brown with age and covered in dust. Here were the tales of Belarius, Sir Wallace, and Queen Regan; the Twelve Kingdoms and the Deceivers. He knew they were fables, tales that the serious minded sidestepped, yet they were a comfort. He turned to his favorite, the story of Queen Regan and the Great Western Weetle-Whelp. As he read he imagined a child tucked in a father’s arms.